


Denisty

by Manyllines



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I left it kinda with an open ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, self-deprecation, sixty my boy is not alright not in the slightless, vent fic, yeah this one has no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26859139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manyllines/pseuds/Manyllines
Summary: Maybe if he let's go, he'll be as free as the transparent curtain that flows in the wind.Maybe then he will finally be fine....Right?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Denisty

**Author's Note:**

> No happiness, no nothing really just sad things
> 
> Please mind the tags and mind ur own mental health  
> I will not tag this as major character death bc there might be more to this  
> If u are triggered by anything said in the tags do not read, but if u do  
> U have been warned.  
> Pls take care of urself

Noise filters inside the room he calls home through the window that’s wide open. The sound of traffic, of the horns of the cars, of tires screeching. The sound of people talking, sometimes screaming, enters through the only window he has in this room like no one's business. The sounds bother him normally, in the quiet of his house, the sound of the outside world is deafening. Today, though?

Today his mind speaks louder than any car horn, than any human voice. Today what deafness him is not the outside but the inside. The recurring thoughts that churn in his messed up head of his, in the middle of the broken and tangled wires.

Usually moods like this would be caused by outside sources, work, ‘his’ family, people in general, usually those are the sources that make his thoughts appear. Do they actually make them appear or is it him? Would they even be a problem if he didn’t put thought into them? If he were normal, like people think he is, would these thoughts really be the source of the problems?

It’s his fault then.

So he’ll rephrase.

Usually moods like this are caused by himself, by his recklessness, by his overthinking of belonging, by him, those are the sources of his thoughts.

Him.

Himself.

No one else.

The chaos he caused earlier in the room stays where he left it, scattered around the floor lay broken pieces of wood, the tools he used to crave it, the sketches, his table flipped upside down, everything lay scattered and unorganized on the floor laid to be forgotten, thrown in a fit of rage. Broken in tiny pieces lays the art piece he has been working on for…. too long.

And on his bed, lays himself, staring straight up to the ceiling in a second hand bed positioned in his too small studio.

He stares at the ceiling like he has stared for the past hour? Maybe it has been days, it’s not like anyone would be too concerned with his wellbeing to check. No one knew how much of a danger he was to himself, besides him.

Everyone watched the smiles and laughs he laid to them with a smile of their own. Oblivious to the true pain that laid underneath.

He clenches his hands over his chest, tightening them over the t-shirt that covered his thirium pump.

Everyone was oblivious to him until he burst out with anger. Then he was a nuisance, crazy, rude, a _fucking bitch_. Just because no one understood, no one ever put effort into understanding and so he was left alone, dubbed as the angry one. The one with the short fuse and the pouty mouth.

A breeze comes from the wide open window he has in his too tiny studio, making the curtains there swing gently. Swinging gently amidst the sickening noise.

He wishes he could be like those curtains, or even the breeze that enters through the window.

Gentle.

Calm

Barely there.

Invisible.

Everyone likes the soft summer breezes, they cool when it’s hot, they make company in the lonely walks, they make the sound of the cicadas travel as they do with the sound of the other organisms that complement this earth.

He does not belong to this earth, was never meant to.

So that’s why as he watches the curtains move gently with the breeze his body moves to stand up.

He sits up on the side of the bed and watches as the curtains dance freely among the wind. No care in the world nothing. Why should they anyway? They aren’t real. Just like him they don’t feel the stabbing pain of being rejected. They don’t feel the anger of being silenced and misunderstood. They don’t feel the loneliness of being the shadow of someone better than them. They don’t feel. Just like him, yes. Like the curtains he doesn't feel. They are just two transparent objects, invisible to the eye until they squint and put effort in their eyes to see them. They are mute, they do not speak. And when they break, when they get ripped apart by themselves or by other cruel hands, they get thrown into the trash. No second thought.

Yes, he’s just like the curtain.

He also wants to dance in the summer breeze and be free, just like the curtain.

Getting up slowly from the edge of the bed he makes his way to the window, the socks mute his steps so no one can hear me, he could make all the noise in the world no one would hear him anyways. He stops right in front of one of the curtains, watching numbly as it flies in the air. He reaches his hand and touches it gingerly.

His touch should not break its dance, the freedom it displays.

Looking up from the curtain he looks through the window to the outside world.

He can’t see much, the bigger buildings over shadow the smaller one he lives in, leaving him in the shadow. He’s always someone else's shadow.

First Amanda’s, acting as her little puppet, just to have his strings cut and to fall into the darkness like a useless ragdoll.

Then by Connor, the better one. Sixty’s lips tick upwards a little bit, it’s not his fault. Really. He didn’t choose being the better one, he didn’t choose to kill Sixty. He just chose to survive. Survive and live the life he deserved. Sixty doesn’t blame him, never truly has.

Then after Connor he was just overshadowed by everyone else. And he let them.

He let them do what they wanted and they left him alone and tired with his broken down body.

Sixty grabs the curtain between his palms, stopping its flow, and rests his forehead against the wall. The curtain cannot flow while being restrained, cannot be free.

Tears fall mutedly, gently down his cheeks.

He brings the curtain up to his nose, the smell of detergent long gone now, it smells like dust, like something old and comforting, it calms his heart, let’s him focus.

Maybe if he cuts his restraints, if the restraints let go of him, he’ll be free, peaceful for the eternity he wishes for.

He lifts his head once more and stands in front of the window once more, on the left corner rests the rusty fire emergency stair that leads up to the roof. He’s the last floor up, the highest part of the small building so the roof is mostly his, since the door that leads up there from the inside of the building is broken.

He likes spending time there, used to lying there staring up at the sky as the rain falls down on him. It always feels like he’s floating underwater, drowning in the best way possible.

His feet move slowly as he approaches the last steps to the window frame, the window, it covers most of the wall, both from the sides as from the ceiling to the floor, leading to a small rusty balcony he like to sit on.

He’s a fool really, he smiles, thinking he could be anything but miserable, how childish of him.

He passes the border of the window that separates the studio from outside. Here the wind is stronger, not by much, but enough to ruffle his hair. And the noise once just annoying now is so much more painful, screaming at him and making him sick. He chuckles. Not even that is enough to drown his thoughts, truly admirable.

The window stays open as he makes his way up the rusty stairs, creaking with each foot he lays down, pleading with him to go back down, to leave them be.

He wishes he could, he wishes he could but his thoughts are louder and so they drown its pleads of mercy.

The roof looks the same as the last time he saw it, empty and dirty, it still looks beautiful though, with all the small lights that hit it, illuminating it, with all the small plants he kept there giving it some life it deserved. No one knew about this little piece of beauty even existed, only him and him alone. He was selfish anyway, always has been, always will be.

He makes his way slowly to the railings that were installed on the edge of the roof, the cold of the concrete soothing, grounds him.

There is no one to stop him and he smiles.

No one to give him empty reasons, empty promises.

No one to restrain him.

He can be free and no one’s here to stop him.

He’s alone.

Tears slip and slip, falling continuously on the railing.

He can’t pretend anymore, he’s so tired of pretending.

If he can’t be himself then why be anything at all?

He passes his left leg over the railing and rests it on the little ledge on the other side, he does the same thing with the other one.

His systems tremble and spin at the height. Memories, not from him, flow in glitches through his vision, broken and disjointed, the image of falling down still apparent. He wonders which model number it was.

He now stands at the ledge, being held by his own to arms. He doesn’t remorse anyone, he doesn’t blame anyone. You don’t blame the moon for making your shadow disappear.

Finally he will dance gently on the wind and be free like the curtain, finally he can experience what it feels like to go peacefully, no gunpowder, no bang, nothing.

No more restrains.

He let’s go.

It was his destiny.

**Author's Note:**

> Yup here i am hurting sixty once more.  
> Sorry for posting so much vent fics buts it's my way of coping right now.  
> Song heard while writting: 'Dynasty' by MIIA
> 
> Here for hoping for a more cheery fic next time.  
> Thank u for reading  
> Take care.


End file.
